


The Tragic Murder at Bluebell Tower

by marigoldcrown



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Dante's Inferno References, Demon Shane Madej, Execution, F/F, Female Homosexuality, Fictional crime, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hell, Human Ryan Bergara, Implied/Referenced Suicide, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Past, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Trauma, Regret, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Staged Crime Scene, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, Tragic Romance, Warning for Angst, fictional murder, this is pretty dark and doesn't end well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marigoldcrown/pseuds/marigoldcrown
Summary: In actuality, this is when Shane would identify the truth. It was something he did with every True Crime case. His ability to manipulate time was a gift, which came with his preternatural origins as a demon. He would usually look for the spot that gave off the highest energies, and a lot of the time unfortunately, this would manifest as shrill cries of pain, a ghostly apparition of the crime manifesting, or a strong odour of blood.In this instance, it was the blood.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	The Tragic Murder at Bluebell Tower

**Author's Note:**

> i like the idea that demon!shane has the ability to replay parts of time that show when events take place and what happens, akin to the crime-scene recreation mechanic in the sherlock holmes games. he doesn't tell ryan, but he knows the answer to every unsolved crime case they cover, due to this ability. 
> 
> (as a heads-up, this is quite a dark fic. involves murder, graphic violence, and psychological trauma. florence, justina, the bluebell tower, and the murder are all fictional.)

“This week on _Buzzfeed Unsolved_ , we dive into the tragic murder that took place at the Bluebell Tower.”

Ryan swept a hand up towards the Jeffersonian structure that loomed behind him. He was perky and confident, which Shane deducted was due to it not being dark yet. At 4:30pm on this frigid January afternoon, they only had light for another hour or so. 

“This boarding house was frequented plenty during the 18th century, when traders would pass through the State selling cotton, sugar, and other wares. Aside from its architectural beauty, this place was the spot where the inn’s landlady, Florence Clermont, was murdered, which continues to baffle people to this day. Some speculate that Florence and her murderer were lovers, others claim that the crime was a cover-up, which lead to an opportunity for Florence to escape her abusive family.”

Having shot the introduction sequence, the crew took the rest of the afternoon to discuss the best locations for lighting, atmosphere, and where to shoot the rest of the episode. During this time, Shane liked to explore the site of his own accord. He usually passed it off as historical intrigue to Ryan.  
In actuality, this is when Shane would identify the truth. It was something he did with every True Crime case. His ability to manipulate time was a gift, which came with his preternatural origins as a demon. He would usually look for the spot that gave off the highest energies, and a lot of the time unfortunately, this would manifest as shrill cries of pain, a ghostly apparition of the crime manifesting, or a strong odour of blood.

In this instance, it was the blood. 

The Bluebell Tower Inn was beautiful in the odd way that comes with age and wear. As he made his way through the drawing room, he waved a hand in the air and watched as ghostly scenes appeared and played out like an old film. Figures conversed, children danced, and men blew the vapour of their pipe smoke away from the pretty barmaids as they batted their eyelashes and curtseyed. With the images came the familiar stale fug of lavender, alcohol, and tobacco. Such scents of leisure were soured as Shane approached the stairwell of the first floor. The marble crumbled as he ascended, continuing to observe the visions as they filled out in their rosy, glowing graces. He heard voices. 

_“Don’t you see, Justina? If you do this, no one will ever have to know. We can be together.”_

_“Flo, I don’t know if I can. I’m scared.”_

Shane didn’t yet turn the corner to the first floor corridor. It wasn’t the right time.

_“This world doesn’t want us, my petal. If evidence of my receipt-fiddling comes to the surface, it’ll put my family in danger. If you’re speculated to be involved, it’ll be over for you. They’ll find out.”_

_“Florence, I…”_

_“It has to be now, Justina. We won’t have the chance again.”_

Shane heard the sound of a kiss.

_“I love you, my dear. I’ll be with you again soon.”_

A sniffle, a sob. _“I love you too, Flo.”_

__

__

_“Remember. As hard as you can.”_

Shane saw the opportunity, and as he stepped round the corner, the delicate pink glow of the ornamental lamps was suddenly swallowed up in darkness. All the laughter from downstairs was gone. Before him, the demon saw a woman bracing with the short length of a drainpipe. Its blocky shape was unmistakable. She stood before a figure sprawled on the parquet rug. With a shudder, the silhouette brought down the blunt end of the pipe onto the figure laying beneath her. The recipient groaned as the metal cracked her temple, blood spraying out of her nose. Before she had time to think, the pipe-wielder raised and brought it down on her again, this time smashing into her collarbone and dislocating her left shoulder. Shane heard the hollow snap of the woman’s bones and grimaced as her blood stained the wallpaper and the floor. Justina was growing weary, but she had to finish the job. Drawing in breath, she used the last of her energy to crush Florence’s face.

The watercolour haze of dusk filtered through the dust-smeared glass. As it speckled through, dotting the air, all had become silent. The two silhouettes before Shane were uncloaked as the darkness melted away in a short moment of calm, and he watched as the younger woman panted, grasping at the creaking floorboards, softly scraping at the walls to find her balance as she stood up. Her breathing was shuddered and ruptured with sobs. When she finally stood up, Justina raised a blood-soaked hand to drag the back of it across her forehead, clearing it of sweat. Behind her, in a crumpled, bloody heap, lay what was left of Florence, her lover. Her face, beaten beyond recognition, to become the infamous crime scene photograph that would soon make the headlines.

The leaden pipe cast its opaque shadow on her fingertips, now missing their nails. Shane was familiar with the scent of blood. Unfortunately, it came with most visions of this kind. As the soft pink twilight glow slid down the woman’s face, Shane could see her expression. Indescribable anguish. Her dirty cheeks were smeared with tears and blood. She was shivering as shock made its journey through her body. Her eyes met Shane’s. They said nothing. 

Shane knew. He knew why she did it. He knew she had no other choice. He knew everything. But it wouldn’t save her. Her fate was already sealed. 

But she didn’t care about that. Fresh tears seeped from her bloodshot eyes. Her lips moved silently and her breath passed through like a death rattle. Shane waited, giving her time. 

_“… I killed her.”_

There was the admission. The mystery was solved. 

Shane nodded, not breaking away from her regard. She was drowning and he could be the saving beacon she needed right now. 

“I killed her… I killed… My Flo… Florence…” Her voice got higher and higher with each panicked admission, as the reality of the situation settled into place. She stepped forward and stumbled, as her sobs broke louder, more hysterically, and she began to scream. Shane’s heart broke. Despite being a demon, he was perfectly able to understand, feel, and reciprocate human emotions. He’d witnessed the world torn apart by war, loss, greed, death, and suffering. But to kill the person you love the most was one of the more uniquely cruel forms of self-destruction.

Shane stepped towards Justina, as she crawled to Florence’s side, taking her shattered fingers into her hands and clutching them. As he knelt down beside her, feeling the warmth of Florence’s blood sticking to his knees and tacking to his soles, he placed a hand on the sobbing lady’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay.” 

He could feel how cold she was through her wool cardigan, as it swaddled her like a baby. In that moment, she was nothing but skin, bones, and a broken heart. When Shane put his arms around her, he could hear her heart pounding. His shirt sleeves grew wet with her tears. She howled, guttural and animalistic, a cry of betrayal and loss. Shane held her, gently rubbing her back in circles. Nothing he could do would help, he knew this, but something ached in him to do _something._

For such a wretched soul, this is the only time Shane can offer any sort of consolation. He wouldn’t be able to find her again. The Seventh Circle of Hell was one of the most vast and complex. Within its twisted canopies of spiked trees and cacophony of pleas for forgiveness through the veils of fog, she could be anywhere there. Forced to spend eternity drowning in her grief and begging to know why the life she had turned out this way. 

Sometimes, Shane wondered why such injustice existed even in the non-human realms. For that, he had one person to blame. As he held the murderer to his shoulder, providing the beacon that she needed, he cursed God for abandoning her. God had turned His back once He’d sealed her fate, so the demon would be there instead. Someone to reassure her that she wasn’t alone. The guilt and grief she felt, Shane realised, should be more than enough punishment for her. Not even her execution would free her from her pain. 

“Shane.”

The woman and her weight against him flickered away into nothing, the bloodstains and tears mottling his shirt faded, the corridor morphed back into its decrepit, rotting and leaking rainwater through the cracks in the walls, decayed wallpaper peeling, the soft rosiness of the twilight melted away into an inky night. Shane saw his shadow extend, surrounded suddenly by a neon haze, accompanied by another as he glanced over his shoulder to see Ryan approach him. His eyes were wide and he looked slightly concerned, blinking at him. “Dude, you okay? You’re looking a little uncomfortable.”

Shane cleared his throat and stood up, before pulling at face at his friend. “What makes you say that, Ryan? Did I have a ghost behind me or something?”

“Well you were just crouched at the foot of this corridor like something outta the fuckin’ _Blair Witch Project._ ” 

“Ah yeah, my legs were cramping up a bit is all. I’m cool.”

“I guess that happens when you have Eiffel Towers for legs.” 

The investigation continued and ended with nothing substantial other than the usual: dust particles, creaky doors, and wind. Shane tried as hard as he could to ignore the hollow crying of the woman as she mourned her sweetheart and childhood friend. She was no longer there, she was somewhere deep in the Seventh Circle, he reminded himself. Where Florence was, he couldn’t be sure. Potentially Malebolge. 

If Shane could have the world his way, he’d have it so that the two could find each other, maybe even be together again. But the time that had passed since the murder was too substantial. By now, they both would have lost their senses of self, likely wouldn’t even recognise themselves, let alone each other. 

“So what do you think happened?” Ryan asked as they concluded their time spent in the Bluebell Tower. 

Shane knew, of course. He knew that Justina had indeed killed Florence, but it wasn’t as the police and journalists had decided. It was done out of necessity, to protect her family, and protect their relationship. Justina had to make it look as brutal as possible so that the murderer would be assumed to be a man, as Florence had told her. Justina had planned to throw herself off the bridge later that night so that she could be with Florence again, but she’d been caught and arrested. Any chance she had that way of reuniting with her as quickly as that became impossible. It wouldn’t be until after her neck was broken. 

Shane held his hands out in a portrayal of blankness, feigning resignation. “This one’s got me, I gotta say. I think it could have been Justina.”

“Your verdict is Justina?”

“I mean, she was caught and hanged.”

Ryan wheezed. “Yeah, sure. Excellent deduction.” He followed with, in a mockery of Shane’s voice: “I think it was this person because they killed her for it!”

“Look man, sometimes there’s no twists and turns with it.” Shane retorted, trying hard to mask his true feelings. Sadness for Florence and Justina, and hatred for the injustice they experienced.

Of course, Ryan wouldn’t know the truth. Neither would the fans. And Shane was bound to remain silent. 

As he knew by now, some stories were just fated to end in tragedy.


End file.
